My worst memories may be best moments

Instead, I think of ill-reputed episodes that I still carry like an anvil lashed to my back.

I was born in a pet shop. As my parents drove by Flinchpaugh's Pet Shop in St. Joseph, one never failed to say, "You were born there."

I always wondered why, but never asked. How many of my elementary schoolmates were born beside kitties, monkeys and hamsters? I carried my birthplace as a badge of honor. Until one of my brothers told me a small hospital was there before the pet shop, which deflated my identity.

Never been the same since.

I weighed just over 4 pounds when born on March 30. My mother feared I'd be an April Fool's baby, forget that I almost died, cooped up in an incubator for a month.

My future sister-in-law said I was the ugliest baby she'd seen. "You looked like a shrunken old man. Red and wrinkled. Hands like claws."

I'll probably look like that in my coffin.

After my first Little League practice, my father asked me what position I played, and I said "Batter."

He immediately told my mother - an avid Major League Baseball fan - who looked at me disgustedly, tempered with a grinning smirk. All we did was play catch and bat.

They silently stole away into the kitchen, heads wagging.

I once asked my parents if farmers milked bulls.

Tragically, I said this while a farm boy schoolmate was sharing dinner with us - I was a town boy, never stepped foot on a farm - and he nearly choked on his mashed potatoes while my parents cackled, rather inappropriately, I thought. No one explained.

Later, in an abandoned garage, a neighbor girl and I mysteriously did some exploring - nothing more - with the cow/bull differentiation becoming a bit clearer.

In fourth grade, I shared with the class a dirty joke my mother told me that morning at breakfast. About four people laughed, the rest looked at Mrs. Sylvester in abject horror.

"My mother told me," I said, reaching for any justification I could.

"I don't believe she did," Mrs. Sylvester said, ashen-faced.

She ordered me to stay in at recess. I sat alone and baffled. Mom didn't say not to tell it.

I've had trust issues ever since.

I once killed a chicken with a dull yard tool. I'll never reveal the revolting details of this episode, but to this day, I won't accept full responsibility. My accomplice was the sister-in-law who had, upon my birth, disparaged my looks.

After I'd slaughtered and dressed the mangled bird, she fried it for dinner. But my brother, when told of the massacre, laughed like a crazed hyena.